


Little Help From My Friends

by achray



Category: Prime Suspect (UK), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Helen Mirren is awesome as usual, M/M, Warning: references to alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:24:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achray/pseuds/achray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock meets his match, and John finds more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Jane Tennison is played by Helen Mirren, in her finest TV role, and if you haven't seen any of the UK Prime Suspect series, you're definitely missing out, but it shouldn't stop you reading this: just picture the OC as Mirren and you'll be fine. References to Prime Suspect canon are very loose. 
> 
> Here's a sample of dialogue from the final season of Prime Suspect (7), at the end of which Jane Tennison retires (probably aged about 60, for the purposes of this fic):
> 
> [Jane has just attended her father's funeral, got extremely drunk, and then alienated her last remaining relatives; she's sitting alone at a bar. The bartender starts asking sympathetic questions about the funeral, and it becomes clear he's chatting her up.]
> 
> BARTENDER: It's just that you look...sad. [Runs his finger over her hand]  
> JANE [looks at him, seemingly considering] Take your fucking hand off mine, and piss off. 
> 
> I love her. 
> 
> Please note: Prime Suspect is a dark and disturbing show and the final episodes show the devastating effects that serious alcoholism has on Jane's life and work. This is a pretty light and fluffy fic, and in that vein it glosses over the alcoholism and pessimism about her future so that everything can be (more or less) fine and happy. If you want more subtle characterisation and handling of major issues, go watch 'The Final Act'. It's also likely that I'll write more about my intense love for Jane Tennison on Tumblr with the second part of this, when I'm not posting from an airport and have some more time. 
> 
> With many thanks to regan_v for excellent suggestions for revision.

John hunched into his coat, shivering: it was cold, with an icy breeze that came  off the dank canal, and overly bright, with crime scene lighting that clashed with the first streaks of dawn in the sky.

Over by the brick wall, in a patch of weeds and broken glass, the crime scene techs were carefully bagging evidence, the contents of a battered tote bag lying strewn across the dirty ground; nearer to them, a young woman’s body lay helplessly on plastic sheeting. Sherlock was still studying her – it - minutely.  John blew on his hands and tried to look somewhere else. He hated it when it was young women, he hated it when it looked like rape or torture. His hands twitched, useless. Anyone with half an eye could see she’d been strangled, he wasn’t needed here.

Greg came over to him, stripping off his gloves. He looked exhausted. John sympathized. He’d called them at 3 a.m. to come and look at the body, so he’d probably been up for a fair bit before that.

“Find anything helpful?,” he asked Sherlock.

“Typical sex murder,” said Sherlock dismissively, glancing up and then standing up. “You’ll have noted the Marlow resemblances.”

“Actually, yeah, I did,” said Greg. “Not the first of his fans we’ve seen, by any means.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Between you and me, what with that prostitute we found strangled last month, people are saying it’s another copycat, a series. Press get hold of it, they’re going to go mad.”

“Series?,” said Sherlock, scornfully. “I doubt it. This – ” he gestured at the body, “is a clumsy attempt to make it _look_ like a series, though obviously he’s done enough to take you in. Get a proper pathologist in for once, if you have one – these –” he flicked his fingers at the bruising, the marks on the girl’s body, round her wrists, “are postmortem. Correct, John?”

“Um,” said John, caught off guard. He bent down and looked more closely. “Could be, certainly.”

Sherlock sighed, already starting to turn away, taking his phone from his jacket pocket. “Hardly worth leaving the flat. There’s nothing original here, bar a few points of minor interest.”

“Minor interest?” said John to him, quietly. “Not very _original_?”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered in his direction and he grimaced very slightly, which John accepted as enough for now.

“Yes, well,” said Greg. “May be so, but it’ll be an uphill struggle to get anyone to take your word for it.”

“If you had let me see the body from last month – ”said Sherlock.

“Give it a rest, will you,” said Greg wearily. “We’ve been over this: not my case, nothing I could do. If you’re done, they’re taking her to the morgue now.”

John poked Sherlock with an elbow before he could open his mouth to say more, and Sherlock subsided reluctantly. Greg called to another officer, busy putting up crime scene tape. He gestured for John and Sherlock to follow him, and they moved a few paces away.

“Marlow?,” John said to Greg.

“You know, George Marlow, the serial killer, early ‘90s. He died in prison about six weeks ago, it was in all the news.”

“Oh, right,” said John. He’d read those articles, though without paying much attention. He remembered the original murders too, vaguely: he’d been about thirteen, fourteen, just starting to be obsessed with sex, and old enough that stuff about sex crimes and prostitutes in the papers and on the news had been horribly fascinating.

 “Sherlock?” said Greg. Sherlock was typing on his phone, scowling. Greg turned back to John.

“Look, obviously we don’t know what’s going to happen with the investigation, but I was wondering – well, despite what himself might say it does seem like we’ve got two related murders, so – I wondered if you two could talk to Tennison for us. She got Marlow, back in the day, and then Len Sheldon – that was the prison guard, the copycat – ” John must have been looking blank. “Jane Tennison? You know, first female DS in the UK? The Sallie Sturdy case?”

“Name rings a bell,” said John. “Was she on Crimewatch a lot? Blond, quite good-looking? Harry wanted to be a police officer for a bit, when we were younger.”

“Yeah,” said Greg. “Point is, she’s the Marlow expert, plus she used to be really bloody good at this sort of thing.”

“Until the Met forced her into early retirement,” Sherlock commented, without looking up from his phone.

“Nothing to do with me,” said Greg. “And I wouldn’t say _forced_. There were a few issues…”

Sherlock snorted.

“She left under a bit of a cloud,” Greg explained to John. “Serious drinking problems, what they called errors of judgment, that kind of stuff. Put a lot of backs up over the years, wouldn’t play the game for the chief brass, thought she could do it all on her own.” He looked at Sherlock meaningfully. “Not sure she’d even answer the doorbell to me, but she might to you two. You could have a lot to talk about.”

“Ha,” said Sherlock, waving his phone triumphantly. “Alison James, second year at UCL, French and Spanish.”

“How…?”, said John, despite himself.

“Textbook,” said Sherlock. “And I do mean that literally. Oh, come on, Lestrade, you saw the contents of her bag. I admit that Zola might be an appropriate choice, had she been a prostitute, but it does seem sadly unlikely in this day and age.”

John and Greg must still have been looking confused.

“A French novel,” said Sherlock, with exaggerated patience. “In French. Bought at a second-hand bookshop much patronized by UCL students. Set text on the current second-year French literature course – second-year was a guess of course, but a good one – ten women on that course with first names starting with A, the initial on her necklace, but only one has three new messages on Facebook asking where she was last night. Alison.”

He looked at John expectantly. “Yes, OK, very good,” John allowed.

“We’d have ID’d her by tomorrow,” said Greg. His phone trilled.

“Her home address and phone number,” said Sherlock, smugly.

“Yes, well,” said Greg. “Doesn’t tell us who killed her or why. But thanks. Sorry, I don’t mean to be…Been a long night. Better get on to her parents, I suppose.” He sighed heavily.

“Send me the case files in the morning,” said Sherlock. He turned and stalked away, towards the bridge and the steps up to the main road, coat swirling.

“Sherlock, you know I can’t – Oh, for fuck’s sake. Tell him he’ll have to come in and look at them, he knows he can’t have them at home. And make him call my mobile if he’s got anything, anything at all.”

 ‘Will do,” said John. “Do you want me to get you a coffee or anything before I head back? Or a bacon roll? I think we passed an all-night place just down the road a bit.”

“Thanks, but I’m headed to the office now anyway.” He nodded towards the body. “I should get on with the ID.”

“Good luck,” said John. “I’d better – ” He gestured towards Sherlock, who as usual wasn’t bothering to wait for him to catch up.

Greg nodded and waved him away.

**

Two days later, Alison James’s parents were inconsolable, and the media had got hold of the details of her murder – the bruised wrists, the marks on her neck, all the rest – same as the victim from a month ago, who was still unidentified, and had put two and two together and come up with George Marlow. The Guardian had a little bit about Jane Tennison, “pioneering female police officer who battled the culture of misogyny at the Metropolitan Police” and how she’d fought for Marlow’s conviction. John read it with interest.

Sherlock was pacing, raking his hands through his hair and muttering to himself, pausing occasionally to stare at the bits and pieces of information he’d pinned to the wall. As predicted, the Met hadn’t had much time for his theory of two separate killers, though Greg swore he was working on it.

John looked at him, and then back at the paper. He took out his phone and texted Greg.

“Getting nowhere here. Got Tennison’s address?”

His phone pinged 30 seconds later: no commentary, just an address in West Hampstead.

“Sherlock,” he said. “We should go and see her. Tennison.” He waved the paper in Sherlock’s direction.

Sherlock made a noise that was almost a snarl and stopped abruptly, bracing himself on the mantelpiece. If he started to bang his head off it, John would leap up and stop him. Probably.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll go and see her. Tell her you’re stumped, ask for advice.”

He was pretty sure that she’d have nothing to offer, but Sherlock in this state required distraction, and at least it would get him out of the flat. Also, Sherlock had already shot down all of John’s theories. He needed a new victim to scorn, and Greg had his hands full with the press.

“I do not require _advice_ from an alcoholic geriatric,” said Sherlock. “This ploy is ridiculous, even for you.”

“Fine,” said John. He stood up and started collecting his stuff: wallet, keys, phone. “I’m going anyway. I could do with a break. Come or not, I don’t care.”

Sherlock made his snarling noise again. John fetched his coat, then on second thoughts, ran upstairs for an extra jumper, it was a chilly day. When he got down again, Sherlock was standing by the door, coat and scarf on, looking murderous. John suppressed a smile.

“Coming, then?,” he said. “Good. Think about it, you can tell her how much more quickly you’d have solved all her cases. I promise I won’t interrupt, unless you make her cry or something.”

Sherlock bared his teeth, in something far removed from a smile. John felt a slight qualm for Jane Tennison. He rather hoped, for her sake, that she would be out when they knocked on her door.

**

The lights were on, however, when they got to her flat around five o’clock, - ground floor of a very imposing Victorian terrace, must have cost a fair amount. It looked a bit run-down, though. Where the neighbours had smartly painted window-boxes, designer gravel and miniature bay-trees, she had peeling paint and a patch of concrete with dandelions poking through it.

John climbed the steps and rang the door-bell with a sense of foreboding. He couldn’t back out of this now, but Sherlock was in one of his nastiest moods and had had to be forcibly restrained from telling the taxi driver that his pregnant wife had been having it off with one of his colleagues.

“Piss off,” shouted someone from inside.

Sherlock visibly brightened. He reached across John and pressed the doorbell again, holding it down. After five seconds or so, the door was wrenched open.

Sherlock took his hand off the buzzer and hastily assumed his fake harmless smile, the one that showed he was secretly plotting something. John gaped. The woman at the door was recognizably the woman from the old photographs, but she wasn’t exactly what he’d been picturing. In his imagination, just for instance, she’d have been wearing tweeds, pearls and offering them sherry, like a butch female version of the retired senior army officers he’d met. Not a grey silk dressing-gown, bare feet, a glass of what looked like whisky in one hand and a cigarette tucked behind one ear. Her hair was mostly pure white, shot with grey and blonde streaks, her face was lined with deep creases, but her eyes were sharp.

“I said _piss off_ ,” she said. Her dressing-gown was coming loose. She let go of the door to try to tighten the belt, one-handed. John wondered in a sort of stunned way if she was wearing anything beneath it.

“You don’t know what we want yet,” said Sherlock, unctuous.

Jane Tennison snorted. “Let’s see,” she said. “What could bring Sherlock Holmes, world’s only consulting detective, and his sidekick to my door? Baffled, are you?  No cigarette ash for you to identify? No convenient bootprints? Thought you’d come and do a spot of arse-licking on behalf of the Met, since they’re reduced to clutching at straws? Well, you can fuck right off. Not my problem.”

She made to elbow the door closed; Sherlock deftly stopped it with his foot.

“You read my blog,” he said.

Tennison pushed at the door ineffectually, then gave up and took a large slug of her drink. She must be drunk, John thought. At 5pm: not a good sign. He wanted to leave.

“I read both your blogs,” she said, gesturing at them with her glass. Liquid slopped over the edges onto her hall floor; she disregarded it. “Yours” – she pointed it at John – “is fatuous but at least mildly entertaining; yours” – to Sherlock – “is so dull that it suggests you have even less of a fucking life than I do. Now – take your foot out of my door and piss off, as requested.”

John looked at Sherlock to suggest maybe they should just do as she said, and noted with a sinking feeling that Sherlock’s eyes were shining and his fake smirk had been replaced with genuine interest. He should have seen that coming: nothing got Sherlock’s attention like concentrated rudeness.

“We should go,” he said half-heartedly.

“No,” said Sherlock. “Invite us in. You’re a recovering alcoholic and you’re on your third glass of whisky. What else are you planning to do this evening? Let’s guess, hmm? Drink the rest of the bottle, pass out in front of the TV, and then wake up tomorrow and call your sponsor? Wouldn’t you rather read the Alison James case files?”

Tennison’s throat moved. “Maybe I feel like drinking alone,” she said.

“You’re drinking because you’re _bored_ ,” said Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” said John.

Tennison pointed her glass at Sherlock, ignoring John.

“Unless protocol has gone out of the fucking window since my time, there’s no way you have those files, so don’t bloody well try to bribe me with them.”

“I read them at the station”, said Sherlock. “Then I photographed the key pages while Lestrade wasn’t looking.”

Tennison laughed, a sharp bark. “In that case…” she said. “Oh fuck it, come in, both of you, give me what you’ve got. Let’s not give the neighbours any more of a show.”

She let go of the door and walked up the hall, turning through a doorway. Sherlock followed. John hesitated on the doorstep. The last thing he needed was to spend another evening of his life with a bitter alcoholic. But then, he also didn’t need Sherlock hanging out with a fellow-addict. Sod it: he headed inside.

Tennison’s house was a tip, John thought, surveying her living room. It was a surprisingly large and attractive room, with what he thought estate agents liked to call period features, and the stuff in it had obviously been carefully chosen at one time. But there were piles of old newspapers and magazines lying around, books and DVDs discarded on the floor beside a plate covered in crumbs, a half-empty bottle of Talisker on the table and a thin layer of dust on everything. It wasn’t entirely unlike what the sitting room at Baker Street looked like every time John came back from a holiday.

Sherlock had gone straight for the laptop on the table, fished a lead out of his pocket and connected his phone.

“This’ll take a couple of minutes,” he said, sitting on the sofa and peering impatiently at the screen. Tennison leant over him briefly to look, one hand casually on his shoulder, hair falling across her face. She straightened up, seemed to remember the glass in her hand, and set it down on the table.

“I need a coffee,” she said. “I gave up making tea for others over twenty years ago, though, so if you want something, you can come through and get it yourself.”

“Tea, please,” said Sherlock, glancing at John. John frowned at him. He could use some himself, though.

“Where…?,” he said to Tennison.

“Far end of the hall,” she said. “Put the kettle on, I’ll just – change out of this.” John made a noncommittal noise. “I had a bath, alright?,” she said. “Coffee’s in the freezer, by the way.”

 The kitchen was equally grand, and equally neglected. It didn’t look as though anyone had ever cooked a meal in it. John switched the kettle on and found the coffee, a cafetiere and some mugs, but after a hunt through almost-empty cupboards, no teabags.

“I can’t find any tea,” he called. He looked around.

Tennison came into the kitchen. She was wearing jeans and some kind of silk vest thing, which still looked like underwear to John, with a crumpled white shirt, buttons undone. “It’s in that tin in the cupboard above your head,” she said. She leant against the counter, took a cigarette from behind her ear, and then twisted to turn on the gas ring and light it from it. John busied himself sorting out tea and coffee. He wished she were wearing something – more appropriate for her age. She must be old enough to be his mother.

“I take mine black,” she said. ‘There should be some milk in the fridge, though.” She made no move to get it; John had to step past her and find it himself. He pushed the plunger down on the coffee and passed her some.

“Cheers,” she said.

“I’m not his sidekick, you know,” said John.

Tennison raised an eyebrow, blowing on her coffee. “Boyfriend, then?”

“What?,” said John. “No.” He sighed. “No, I’m straight.” It seemed to sound less convincing the more he said it.

“Right,” said Tennison sceptically. She took a drag. 

John thought she was coming a close second to Irene Adler as the most irritating woman he’d ever met.

‘If you don’t mind’, he said, holding on to politeness with both hands. ‘I’ll just take this tea through.’

She moved aside fractionally and John squeezed past. ‘I’ll be in when I finish this’, she said, waving the cigarette. ‘I can see he has two patches on, tried that enough times myself not to interfere.’

John nodded acknowledgement. He supposed this showed some compunction, at least.

**

Tennison studied the photos of Alison James intently, dispassionate, then she scrolled through them again, frowning slightly. Sherlock had appropriated the most comfortable armchair and was typing into his phone, fingers flying, ignoring the tea that John had dutifully brought him. John sat beside Tennison on the sofa and drank his own tea, wondering what she was thinking.

She blew out a breath. “There’s something – there, look.”

John glanced at Sherlock to see if he was going to respond, then lent over obediently himself, peering at the screen. Tennison zoomed in on the photo.

“Her ring?” John studied the grainy picture. It was a gold ring, one of those ones with a heart and clasped hands and a crown; there was a name for them, though he couldn’t think of it.

“Yes, this one, see? Someone’s taken it off and put it on again, different way round,” Tennison said.

“Looking for prints, maybe?,” said John. “Sherlock, did you take off her ring?”

“Looked at it,” said Sherlock, without ceasing to type. “But if you’re asking if I noticed that it had been removed from her finger and then returned between the first and last photos, then the answer is yes. Obviously.”

“Message received, thanks,” said Tennison. “These first photos – they were taken before the scene of crime lot started their work? By the police who answered the 999 call, right?”

“If you’re attempting to demonstrate the incompetence of the police and their inability to leave well alone at a crime scene, I’d have thought you’d have plenty of past examples to draw on,” Sherlock remarked.

Tennison raised one eyebrow at him. “You know what kind of ring this is, then?”

“Claddagh ring,” said Sherlock promptly, still without looking up. “Design Irish in origin, associated with romantic relationships . Hardly rare or unusual for a woman of her age and background. Relatively unworn, probably a gift.” He frowned, his fingers pausing over the keys. “Approximate value - £30. Maybe. If you think that one of the first officers to the scene thought of stealing it, it would hardly have been worth their while.”

Tennison leant back a little. She smiled at Sherlock, all teeth. “You don’t know why this might be significant, do you?”

Sherlock stopped typing and looked at her properly, forehead creased in annoyance. John suppressed a grin. He was warming up to Tennison.

“Do you know, John?,” she said.

“Me? Haven’t a clue, sorry,” John said, almost automatically. There was a vague memory stirring, though. “Hang on – Claddagh rings, I had a girlfriend thought we should get one once. Isn’t there a thing about how you wear them?”

“Absolutely,” said Tennison, smiling at him; John couldn’t help feeling pleased with himself. Sherlock was looking murderous. He snapped his laptop shut and glared at them.

“Look,” said Tennison, turning the screen of her laptop towards him. “First photo taken, she has the heart turned inward. Fast forward a few minutes, it’s the other way round. So, in this one, she’s taken, she’s in a couple. But if you wear it the other way round, you’re single.” She sat back again, setting down the laptop on the coffee table and running her fingers distractedly through her hair.

“Coincidence,” said Sherlock, though without the full weight of his dismissal.

“Might be,” Tennison allowed. “Probably. Hell, I don’t know.” She banged her fist on the table, once, hard. “Damn it, I shouldn’t have had a fucking drink, I can’t think straight.  If someone either didn’t want us to know she had that ring, or wanted it to look like she’d bought it for herself…could have been interrupted, if they were trying to take it…. Have you any info on the first uniforms at the scene, where they were when the call came in, that kind of thing?” She gestured, impatient. “Come _on_ , Sherlock, if it’s a sodding coincidence, let’s cross it off the list and move on, shall we?”

 John took a moment to savour Sherlock’s look of outrage. “Sherlock thinks someone was faking this scene, making it look like a Marlow copycat,” he told Tennison.

“Yes,” she said. “I wondered that myself, when I read about this one. There’s something a bit too carefully arranged – these bruises here, and here. See? Those weren’t on all of Marlow’s victims. She looks like…” She put a hand to her mouth, frustrated. “I can’t remember, why can’t I – no, wait, it was Karen, Karen Howard. And not all of those crime scene photos were released to the press. We should check up on that next, too.  If these are postmortem, it opens up a lot of possibilities.” She touched the screen gently. “We’ll get the bastard for you,” she told the picture, fierce.

John looked pointedly at Sherlock, who was giving Tennison his narrow-eyed, why-can’t-I-solve you stare. “What can we do to help?,” he said.

**

Tennison – Jane, as she’d asked them to call her after that first all-nighter, some time around 2am – had been right. Almost. Sherlock and John had persuaded the young officer who’d been first to report finding the body to confess, after a solid day and night of evidence-gathering, a day interviewing Alison’s friends (Jane had been surprisingly helpful here) and another day of stalking him. He hadn’t murdered Alison, but her new boyfriend, who had, though he alleged it was accidental, was his cousin and best friend, and he’d thrown everything away to help him out. He’d helped to make it look like a copycat, he’d helped to bruise Alison’s body and dump it,, but he hadn’t thought of her ring until later, and it was that moment of extra cleverness that had undone him. John almost felt sorry for him, though not enough to dim the satisfaction of a case solved. Jane insisted they worked on the strangled prostitute, too, with Sherlock’s disdainful agreement: that one was a longer story and did turn out to be a Marlow fan, but not one with the nous to hide himself from Sherlock in a highly competitive mood and a newly energized and sober former Detective Superintendent.

John had never seen Sherlock hit it off with someone else, excluding himself and Mrs Hudson. He didn’t count Irene, they’d been playing each other, and Sherlock had relished the game. But it seemed – it seemed as though Jane entertained him, and not, as was usual, because he was marvelling at her stupidity. His objections to spending practically all day and night at her flat while they worked on the Alison James case were pure form. If it hadn’t been such an odd thing to think of Sherlock, John would have said that he actually liked her.

Maybe he just had an affinity for older women, or maybe they were the only kind of people not remotely cowed by him. When Sherlock insulted Jane’s intelligence, heredity and career record, she laughed and then gave as good as she got. When – over fish and chips on her living-room floor to celebrate the end of their first two cases – Sherlock went through her three greatest successes and dissected all the ways in which she’d gone wrong, she just shrugged.

“You don’t have to put up with him, you know,” John said to her, quietly, when Sherlock had gone out to the hall to leave Greg a rude message about where he could stuff his paperwork. “I mean, I get the impression you were pretty good at your job.”

“Neither do you,” she said. She leant over and stole a handful of Sherlock’s chips, which he wasn’t really eating. “I’ve had years to grow a thick skin, and believe me, I’ve seen plenty worse than him.”

“My sister used to want to stay up to see if you were on Crimewatch,” said John. He felt himself flush slightly. He didn’t know why he’d suddenly come out with that. 

“I was only on a few times,” said Jane. “Wasn’t sexy enough for them.”

“Harry fancied you, I think. Though she was only about ten then, to be fair.”

Jane gave him a pointed once-over. John’s flush deepened. “Give her my number,” she said. “I’ve never shagged a woman, but I’m not too old to learn new tricks.”

“Er, no,” said John. “I think you two might get on a bit too well for my liking.”

Jane met his eyes. He hadn’t mentioned Harry’s drinking, but he thought Jane might have guessed at it. She’d said, that first night, that it had been her first lapse in months, and she’d done a certain amount to appease John by giving him the rest of the whisky to take home. He didn’t think she’d had another drink since then, and he hadn’t seen any in the house, but he knew from bitter experience that that meant nothing.

Sherlock came back in then, scowling, and the conversation shifted away.  John thought about it later – Jane had some great anecdotes about her days on the force, but it obviously hadn’t been easy. Not that it was an excuse, but she’d at least had a reason to start drinking; things to forget, things to regret. He thought that she was a bit like Sherlock: maybe not quite as tough as she liked to make out. He’d asked Greg about her, after the first night at her house, but Greg had just shrugged.

“People loved her or hated her,” he said. “She got results, but there were some pretty spectacular crash and burns along the way.”

“It’s just – I wondered how you knew she’d talk to Sherlock.”

Greg looked at him shrewdly. “Just a hunch,” he said. “Both pretty determined, aren’t they?”

“You could put it like that.”

“I take it they got on, then?”

“Like a house on fire,” said John. Never had a metaphor been more appropriate, he thought.

Greg snorted. “Watch yourself,” he said, but didn’t specify further.

**

Cases finished, it was possible, John supposed, that this new thing with Jane might have fizzled out. But if Sherlock had found one more person he could tolerate in the greater London area, it seemed worth making an effort to have her around. Two weeks later, Sherlock was wearing paths in the carpet again and hadn’t taken off his dressing-gown for three days: surprisingly stumped by a case of embezzlement at a hedge fund that would have been minor if it hadn’t been for the truly staggering sum of money involved. It seemed that all four partners in the hedge fund had been in Sherlock’s college in his year, and John strongly suspected that Sherlock wouldn’t have remotely cared about erring merchant bankers if it hadn’t been that he’d airily told them their problem would take under three hours, and now it had been three days and counting.

John also felt very slightly guilty, because he’d possibly represented to Sherlock that if they didn’t take the case, there was no prospect that they could pay for the bathroom floor to be retiled. Seeing what Sherlock’s last round of chemical experimentation had done to it had caused Mrs Hudson to stop speaking to them and refuse to enter the flat.  

Sherlock was currently slumped on the sofa, muttering to himself and pulling at his hair. Any minute now he would look round for his violin and then John might genuinely have to strangle him. He took out his phone.

“I thought I might text Jane, see if she fancies coming over,” he said.

“Are you suggesting I need _help_?,” said Sherlock, sharp-edged.

John put on his most innocent expression. “Course not,” he said. “I just wanted to check how she’s doing, make sure she’s not getting – bored with things again.”

Sherlock glared at him. John blinked back.

“Fine,” said Sherlock, bitten-off. “You two can amuse each other. Just don’t interrupt my _work_.”

Jane showed up just half an hour later, brandishing Lebanese takeout from a restaurant John particularly liked: Sherlock disappeared to his room when he heard the doorbell. Oh well. At least John would have company. He made a move to set the table, but Jane stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Don’t get out the good china,” she said. “I usually eat in front of the TV, to be honest. Or standing up. Haven’t really moved on from the days of drinking my dinner.” She made a face and looked around. “Where is he, anyway?”

“Sulking in his room, I think,” said John. He helped himself to a kebab and some bread and took it over to the sofa.

“I am not sulking,” said Sherlock, striding back into the kitchen. John was amused to see that he was fully dressed, looking immaculate. He might even have brushed his hair.

“Glad to see it,” said Jane. “Help yourself. John and I are going to watch some bad TV, right, John?”

“Absolutely,” said John, grinning. “Any preferences, Sherlock?”

“I’m trying to _think_ ,” said Sherlock. “You’re interrupting.”

“I was invited,” said Jane. “Get over it. Either join us, or fuck off to your room and think there.”

Sherlock tried to stare her down, but his eyes dropped first. “Harpy,” he said. “I do have five newly developed toxins in the kitchen cabinets, you know. I’d keep an eye on your glass, if I were you.”

“He’s not lying,” said John. “You should see what one of them did to the bathroom floor.”

“I’ll take my chances, thanks,” said Jane, settling on the sofa with her plate. “Pass the hummus and bread over, will you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock sighed dramatically and did so, sitting down on her right. “Five minutes,” he said. “And no topical quiz shows, cookery shows or costume dramas.”

That night John made his way downstairs around two, after going to bed around midnight, woken up by not particularly low voices, and found Sherlock and Jane amicably bickering over a case. Sherlock was sideways in his armchair, legs crooked over one arm, hands laced behind his head, and Jane was curled up in John’s, leafing through one of Sherlock’s old files. John had an instant where he thought he might mind, and then Jane gave him a comradely smile and he didn’t.

“Thought you’d left,” he said to her, yawning and blinking in the light. She’d had her coat on when he’d gone upstairs and had in theory been on her way out, though to be fair she’d just got into an argument with Sherlock about the ethics of trying to hack into people’s private bank accounts.

“Got caught up,” said Jane, apologetically. “Did we wake you? Shit, John, I’m sorry, I lost track of time. Sherlock was telling me about one of his cold cases.”

“Oh, right,” said John, a little puzzled. “What about the bankers?”

“Solved that,” said Sherlock airily. “Moving on.”

“Really?,” said John. “Did you help?,” he asked Jane, curious.

Jane shrugged. “Only if you count Sherlock working it out while telling me in great detail why only total fuckwits like myself don’t understand the operations of hedge funds.”  

“That makes two of us,” said John.

“Are you down to make tea?,” said Sherlock, impatiently, swinging his legs.

“At half two in the morning? Not bloody likely,” said John. “I’m down because I could hear you two talking from upstairs. You’ll wake up Mrs Hudson, and it’s not as though she’s happy with us right now.”

“Hell,” said Jane, yawning. “I’d better go home. I’ll take a cab.” She sat up, and started putting her coat back on. “Biggest perk of retirement, you don’t have to get up for anything or anyone.”

“Sherlock could see you down to the street and into a taxi,” said John. “It’s pretty late.”

Jane crooked an eyebrow at him and her mouth quirked. “You are sweet,” she said. “But believe me, I can take care of myself. Night, John. Night, Sherlock. I’ll see you boys soon.” John moved to hold open the door for her as she went out – Sherlock, naturally, didn’t shift – and she smiled warmly at him and then clattered down the stairs, not particularly quietly.

John turned from the door to find Sherlock watching him with a certain intensity.

“What?,” he said. “I’m just being polite.”

“Mmm,” agreed Sherlock.

“You actually like her, don’t you,” said John, though he immediately regretted how primary school this sounded.

Sherlock evidently thought so too. He swung his legs round and onto the floor. “I need to make a few notes on this case,” he said. “If you’re not going to make tea, at least be quiet.”

“Fine, fine,” said John. “I’m off back to bed. Have fun.”

He hoped Jane had found a cab OK, it was cold out. He should text her to make sure, perhaps. He shook the thought off; she’d be fine. But he might give her a quick ring in the morning, just to check. And see if she'd like to come round again, sometime soon. 


	2. Chapter 2

Six weeks passed, and Jane started coming around more often, talking Sherlock into playing the violin for them, admiring the new bathroom floor, and editing John’s latest blog entry. It seemed like a regular thing now, that she would come over to 221B at least one night a week, or, more rarely, they’d go to hers, and she’d go through case files with Sherlock, watch DVDs with John, eat curry, tell them scurrilous stories about the cops they’d encountered. In between she sometimes texted Sherlock about cases, at least from what John saw, and John about Coronation St. She and Sherlock almost always stayed up half the night, no visible signs of exhaustion, making John feel like a lightweight in genuinely wanting to go to bed before 4am. Sometimes he stayed up and joined in, sometimes he gave up and left the pair of them to it.

This particular Sunday night, John folded after about an hour of detailed and graphic forensic discussion and went upstairs to finish writing up his blog post in peace and quiet. When he ventured down again an hour later, round midnight, the living room was quiet, dim. Jane was lying on the sofa, smoking, mug balanced on her stomach. Something classical was playing in the background. One of her knees was bent up, and John couldn’t help noticing that her skirt had slid up to reveal really striking legs. He’d noticed them before, of course, but on display in his sitting room was another matter.

“Where’s Sherlock?,” he asked.

Jane looked round at him and blew her fringe out of her eyes.

“Pissed off to his bedroom in a self-righteous huff,” she said, blowing out smoke. “Oh, don’t give me that doctorly look, John. You know I’ve stayed off the booze, but I’ve got to have some pleasures in life. Besides, I’m too old to give a fuck about my health any more. And Sherlock’s hardly lacking in will-power when he chooses to use it.”

She took another drag and blew out the smoke slowly. John swallowed and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water, though he felt more like a stiff drink. Smoking was _not sexy_ , he told himself firmly. And Jane had great legs for her age, and perhaps she was lying on his – their – sofa with her top shirt buttons undone and her hair tousled. But she was what, twenty years older than him at least. Mrs Hudson’s age, for god’s sake. She was a friend, Sherlock’s friend. And not his type anyway. Not his type at all.

He went back out to the living room. Jane slid over on the sofa, curled her legs under her and patted the space beside her. John went over to sit there: it would be rude not to. 

“Get anywhere with the cold case?,” he said.

“Not really,” said Jane. She yawned. “Christ, Sherlock’s exhausting. Bloody brilliant, but it’s like going five rounds with an Olympic heavyweight every time.”

John grunted noncommittally, though he couldn’t have agreed more. Jane stretched, stubbed out her cigarette and put her empty mug on the floor, and then slid round and down on the sofa so that she was leaning against the end, stocking feet in John’s lap. When John looked at her, she met his gaze, challenging, small smile playing round her mouth. John licked his lips and considered his options.

“New shoes,” she said. “They’re killing me. Should just give in and buy some bloody fur-lined boots. Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” he said, setting his empty glass on the floor.

He ran his hands over Jane’s feet, long and narrow, and pressed his thumbs into the arch.

Jane sighed. “Ah, that feels good,” she said. Her head was back against the armrest; her body a long line from pale throat, past what looked like nicely-shaped breasts, down over the gentle swell of her stomach, to long, firm legs. John could see her bra straps through her shirt, and a hint of lace where the buttons were open; he could almost see the place where her legs met, under her rucked-up skirt.

He rubbed her feet mechanically, willing his budding erection away. Twenty years. More. She certainly didn’t look it, in this dim lighting.

“Mmm,” said Jane. “Lovely. You have good hands.” She looked up and caught him, watching. Holding his gaze, she slid her left foot up until it pressed into John’s crotch. His mouth fell open slightly, hands faltering.

“Look,” Jane said. “No offence if I’ve got this wrong, but would you like to go to bed?”

“God, yes,” said John, fervently.  Sherlock would have a fit, but he really didn’t care.

“Good,” said Jane. “Because I’ve been wanting to do this for a while.” She reached out for John’s shirt collar and tugged it, not gently, till he got the message and leant over awkwardly, weight half-resting on her, and met her lips.

Jane tasted like cigarette smoke and coffee, and she kissed in a no-nonsense way, licking her way into John’s mouth, demanding. He braced one hand on the back of the sofa so that he could slide the other up her leg, brushing over her thighs and then lodging between them. She pressed up against him, and hummed into his mouth.

“God, you’re hot,” said John.

“Got a thing for older women?,” said Jane, amused. She ran a hand down his back and up under his shirt, scraping her nails in the small of his back.

“Might have, now,” said John. He kissed her again, with increasing urgency.

“We should move to my bedroom,” he said, after a while, breaking off. “Sherlock might come back in here.”

“And what if he did?”

The thought of Sherlock seeing him, seeing him and Jane, should have been off-putting but was instead disturbingly hot, in ways that John definitely didn’t want to think about just now. 

“Bit chilly in here,” he said. “Let’s go to bed, take our time.”

Jane nodded, grey eyes shrewd. John unpeeled himself from her, reluctantly, and got up; she swung her legs off the sofa and they went upstairs, John conscious that Jane was behind him, watching. He closed the bedroom door after her firmly and, not for the first time, wished he’d got round to installing a lock. Jane was already peeling down her tights, silhouetted in the light coming in from the street, and then starting on her shirt buttons.

“Let me,” said John, and he crossed to help. Jane kissed him and started working on his buttons, their hands getting tangled; she smiled against his mouth.

“I’ll do mine, you do yours,” she said, stepping back far enough to start stripping off the rest of her clothes, efficiently, and slipping under the covers. John did likewise. He wasn’t sure whether to turn on the light or not. Semi-darkness might be kinder for both their bodies, perhaps. Not that it seemed Jane needed to be self-conscious: she really did have marvellous breasts – he kissed his way down them, and she stroked his head, with a pleased hum – and he moved lower, sliding between her legs.

Jane gasped at the first touch of his tongue, and arched under him impatiently. “Yes,” she said. “Fuck, John, more.” John didn’t need the encouragement, but he refused to speed up, gently exploring, finding what would make Jane jolt and curse. It had been a while since he’d gone down on anyone and Jane swearing fluently above him, voice gravelly, was one of the hottest things he’d heard in a long time.

“Stop teasing - fuck,” said Jane, breathless. “Wait, come up here.” John stopped with reluctance and slid upwards, where Jane kissed him hungrily. She moved a hand down to stroke him, confidently, and he shuddered against her.

“I wanted to make you come like that,” he said.

“Mmm,” said Jane. “Lovely. But I want you to fuck me.” She twisted her hand and it was John’s turn to gasp.

“Condoms,” he said, gesturing very loosely. “Bedside drawer.”

Jane rolled over and opened the drawer, scrabbling in it and then emerging triumphant with the packet; she ripped one open with an ease that looked born of practice and slid it onto John. He shut his eyes and tried to hold on to his self-control, difficult when Jane was pressed up against him, kissing him.

“Like this?,” he said, breaking off. “Or do you want…?”

“What I want,” said Jane, “is you fucking me _right now_.” She shifted under him, took John’s cock in hand and guided him in, impatient, and they both sighed together.

“You feel amazing,” said John. “Don’t know if I can last long.”

“Well, give it a go, for fuck’s sake,” said Jane, sardonic even while half-breathless, and John breathed out carefully and obeyed instructions.

Afterwards, they lay together comfortably, John still buzzing pleasantly with the aftermath of orgasm and feeling a bit smug. Jane was resting on his shoulder, her hair tickling his chin. He shifted a bit to look down at her.

“Hmm,” she said, stretching.

“You’re dying for a cigarette, aren’t you?,” said John.

“Sherlock’s rubbed off on you,” said Jane. “I wouldn’t mind. Been a while since I had sex without a few drinks involved. Or more than a few.” She propped herself up a bit to look down at John. “Thanks.”

John grinned at her. “Is this where I say it was my pleasure?”

“Bastard,” said Jane, and flopped back down.

“You can smoke, you know,” said John. “As long as I can open the window.”

“Left them downstairs,” said Jane.

“Want me to get them for you? I could do with a glass of water in any case.”

Jane looked at him, and John had a moment of wondering about the etiquette here; of suggesting Jane stay in his bed. For the night? He wasn’t sure, but he’d definitely be interested in another round, in a bit, if she was.

“OK,” she said, an undercurrent of amusement that suggested she’d correctly twigged John’s thoughts. “Thanks.”

John rolled out of bed clumsily and groped around for something to wear. “Water?,” he said, putting them on.

“Please,” said Jane, lying back down.

John headed downstairs, with a brief stop in the bathroom. Sherlock wasn’t in evidence in the living-room, thankfully. He had to fish down the back of the sofa for Jane’s cigarettes, and then try to carry them and two glasses of water up the stairs somewhat precariously. When he got to the top, concentrating on not spilling the water, he looked up and jumped, involuntarily, causing half of the glasses to slosh on his legs. Sherlock was standing in the shadows on the landing outside John’s door, arms folded, looking cross.

“Jesus Christ,” said John, in a furious whisper. “What the hell are you doing up here?”

Sherlock looked John over in a brief sweep, and John was immediately aware that he was only wearing his pyjama trousers, and that Sherlock would know exactly what he and Jane had been doing. He could probably tell John what position they’d been in.

Sherlock looked a little discomfited, though not as chastened as John was aiming for. “You and Jane…had sex,” he noted, quietly but not quietly enough.

“Yes,” said John. “That’s right. _Are_ having sex. I don’t know why you’re standing outside my door but it’s not appropriate, OK? Just – go back downstairs, Sherlock. We’re not having a conversation about this here and now.”

John’s door opened with a creak, and he swore to himself. Jane had put on his dressing-gown. He felt as though he and Sherlock were a couple of naughty schoolboys, caught in the act.

“Sherlock,” said Jane, with amusement. “Don’t tell me you’ve been lurking on the landing the whole time.”

Sherlock now looked extremely discomfited, which under other circumstances John would have enjoyed. “No.” He cleared his throat. “No, I just came up to – see where you were.”

“Well, now you know,” said Jane. “Shagging John. Got a problem with that?”

Sherlock coughed. “No, I… no.”

“Good,” said Jane. She was using her Detective Superintendent tones, which probably shouldn’t have been a turn-on for John, but definitely was. “See you later. Unless you’re joining us, of course?”

“Hang on,” said John. Sherlock’s mouth had fallen open slightly, and he was staring at Jane as though she’d grown an extra head.

“Or is that you want me to leave you with John?,” Jane said, tilting her chin up. “Well? Cat got your tongue?”

Sherlock visibly pulled himself together. “If you’ll excuse me, I have something to check on in the kitchen,” he said, with as much hauteur as he could muster, and he pushed past John and bolted – no other word could describe it – downstairs.

Jane smiled at John, a little guilty. “Sorry,” she said. “Couldn’t resist.”

“You were winding him up, right?,”  said John.

“I don’t know, what do you think?”. She studied John’s face. He didn’t know what she might read there. “For me? Thanks.” She took one of the glasses from his hands and drank it in a couple of swallows. “Come on. Let’s go back to bed. I’m not staying over, I prefer to sleep in my own bed, so you can have it out with Sherlock later.”

***

John thought he should press Jane on what she’d said to Sherlock, but he didn’t: in fact, he pretty much passed out after round two and when he roused himself properly, which wasn’t until the early morning, she was gone, leaving a dim memory that she’d kissed him on the shoulder and said she’d see him soon. Part of him felt pleasantly blissed out on good sex, part of him was petrified of what Sherlock was going to say. He put off going downstairs by having a long shower, but there was only so long it could plausibly take him to get dressed.

Sherlock was in the living-room, seemingly engrossed in one of his ancient-looking books. Possibly he had been there all night: he was still wearing the same dressing-gown, and his hair was sticking up in all directions. A sheaf of papers had spilled off the table beside him into a graceful arc on the floor.

“Morning,” said John. “Just putting the kettle on, if you want something.”

“Hmm?,” said Sherlock. He blinked at John, vaguely, and then his gaze focused. “No. Thank you. Working.”

“OK then,” said John. This politeness was disconcerting. He braced himself on the counter while he waited for the kettle to boil, and then made Sherlock some tea anyway, just in case.  He set it down beside him and then sat across the table.

“Sherlock?” he said.

Sherlock looked up slightly. His gaze snagged on the mug of tea and he sat up a bit more, reaching for it. John waited until he’d taken a mouthful or two, he looked as though he needed the caffeine.

“About last night,” he said. “Me and Jane. Look, I wasn’t planning on sleeping with her, I know she’s your friend too and it might be a bit odd, just…” He trailed off. Sherlock was looking at him with an air of careful blankness, as though he wasn’t sure what John was talking about, but John was nearly certain he was faking it.

He sighed and tried again. Maybe direct questions were best. “Are you…upset?”

“Upset?” said Sherlock. “Why would I be upset?”

“But you were surprised, right? Sherlock, you were standing outside my door.  You know that was weird behaviour, don’t you?”

Sherlock ran a hand through his already wild hair, then pointedly put a slip of paper in his book, closed it, and laid his hands precisely on top of it.

“I wasn’t surprised,” he said. “I had, of course, noticed your mutual interest, and you and Jane are both, well, you share a, a relaxed attitude towards sex and sexuality. I meant no… it won’t happen again.”

John looked at him closely. He thought Sherlock might be blushing slightly.

“Fine,” he said. Sherlock acknowledged this with a dip of his head and then opened his book again, ready to immerse.

“And, you know, Jane was just joking, with what she said,” John added, as casually as he could manage. He picked up his mug, ready to go back to the kitchen for some breakfast.

“Was she,” said Sherlock, without looking up from the book.

John stared at him, uneasy. He didn’t want to touch that one.

“I found her suggestions – potentially intriguing,” said Sherlock, matter-of-fact, though there was something off in his tone, something perhaps a little defiant, and there was still faint colour in his cheeks. He turned a page. “You were about to make toast. Don’t let me stop you. I’ll have one slice, no marmalade.”

John was glad enough to take this as a dismissal and end to the conversation, though he rather wanted to point out to Sherlock that only he could conceivably go from suggesting that a threesome – if that’s what he’d meant – was “intriguing” to requests for buttered toast in the same sentence. He thought about Sherlock’s comment off and on all day. “ _Potentially_ intriguing,” what the hell did that mean? What potential? Was Sherlock attracted to Jane? Or…to John? Or did he have some perverse interest in watching his friends having sex? Because no, there was no way John would consider…Of course he wouldn’t. If Sherlock had deliberately been trying to wind him up, he thought, he’d certainly succeeded.

***

Jane texted John, a brief, ‘Thanks for last night. J”, later that morning (Sherlock looked up at the sound, but didn’t comment further) but John heard nothing else until the doorbell rang at about 10pm the following night. Sherlock was in his room. He’d been out most of the day on a mysterious errand, which he hadn’t deigned to tell John about. John switched off the TV and went down to get the door. Jane was standing on the doorstep, hands in the pockets of her good wool coat. She smiled at John, predatory, and he grinned back, pleased to see her.

“Thought I’d drop by,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Booty call, isn’t that what you young people say?”

“I’m not that young,” said John. “Come on up.” He hadn’t been sure whether Jane’d been thinking of them as a one-off, but he certainly wasn’t going to object to a change in his plans to channel-surf until he fell asleep.

He let Jane in, closing the door behind her; and was surprised when she instantly pulled his head towards her for a kiss, wet and messy in all the best ways. John kissed her back, though with a bit more restraint. He could hear Mrs Hudson’s TV blaring in her flat.

“Come on,” said Jane, breaking off. She took his hand and almost pulled him upstairs, through the living-room door, and then backed him against it. She kissed him again, swirling her tongue round his in a way that almost made John’s knees buckle; his hands came up to grip her hips and he rocked against her, ceding control. He was aware in the back of his mind that Sherlock was somewhere in the flat and could come in at any moment, but when Jane slid down in front of him and starting unbuttoning his trousers, he couldn’t find it in him to care about anything other than how soon he could feel her mouth on him. He tried not to make a sound, tried to be quiet as she freed his erection from his boxers and stroked it, licking round the head, before taking his cock into her mouth and working it with her tongue, but he couldn’t stop himself from swearing quietly. He was already getting close, his thigh muscles trembling slightly, when Jane unexpectedly pulled off and stood up, briskly: John almost whined in frustration.

“Sherlock,” Jane said, without looking behind her, and John stared in shock as Sherlock moved out of the shadows in the kitchen doorway.

“Fuck, sorry,” he said, through the fog of lust and frustrated arousal. But even as the words came out realization hit: he and Jane hadn’t accidentally disturbed Sherlock, he’d been _waiting_ there, hidden just out of sight, and Jane had –she wasn’t surprised, so she’d known. Sherlock was looking directly at him, eyes bright, and as John stared back Sherlock’s glance deliberately dropped to John’s cock, only half-hidden by Jane in front of him, and then back to John’s face.

“What the hell?,” said John. He reached down to put himself away, but Jane’s hand was there before his, holding his cock and then stroking him, gently; despite the strangeness of the situation, John felt himself responding. Jane pressed against his right side, her hair tickling his ear. Sherlock was watching John’s cock sliding through her hand, and John wanted to close his eyes but couldn’t, mesmerized.

“Sherlock and I had a long talk today,” said Jane in his ear, low and confidential. Her hand twisted and John bucked slightly. “He – both of you – helped me out. Look on this as returning the favour. I’ve been around the block a few times, you know, and I’ve got plenty of experience with men who are hiding something, even when they might not know it themselves.”

 Between her hand and Sherlock’s heated gaze, John could barely concentrate on her words. He ought to put a stop to whatever this was, to tell both of them to fuck off and go to his room and slam the door, but he didn’t feel capable of moving, and he desperately wanted to come.

‘You two,” said Jane, affectionately, even while her grip firmed and her strokes became faster, making John’s breath catch in his throat. “You’re not exactly hard to read. You could power a generator with the sexual tension in this room. I’m just – giving you a hand, as you’re obviously too bloody stubborn to go there yourself.”

John would have said something scathing, but he couldn’t form the words, straining after release. But Jane’s touch went lighter just when he thought he was nearly there, maddeningly not quite enough. “Come here,” she said, louder and impatiently, and John had a moment of confusion before it hit him like a slap in the face: she was talking to Sherlock. Sherlock looked quickly at John’s face – John had no idea what he read there, but apparently it was permission because he dipped his head once and then strode over to John’s other side, stopping just a few inches away. Jane kissed John hard on the lips, slid her hand over him once more, too gently, and then stepped back slightly.

“I’m bowing out now,” she said. “OK, John?”

John looked at both of them, mad as fucking hatters. But then perhaps he was too, because he couldn’t back out of whatever this was. He’d speculated more than once about what desire would look like in Sherlock, and now he could see; Sherlock’s scattered focus all directed at John, incandescent.

“You planned this, you bastards,” he said. “Yes, OK.”

Sherlock smiled and stepped forward to press his clothed body against John’s, the only naked part of John his cock, still more than interested, rubbing against the fine wool of Sherlock’s trousers. John gasped at the sensation. He barely registered Jane moving away to sit on the sofa and watch them, because Sherlock was staring at John as though he was a revelation, and bending his mouth to kiss him, instantly deep and hungry, and John could feel that Sherlock, pressing against him, was almost as hard as he was.

He could have come just from rutting against Sherlock’s clothes and from the extraordinary sensation of kissing him, but Sherlock broke off and rested his forehead against John’s, breathing heavily. “Can I…?”, he said.

“Yes, anything,” said John recklessly and in desperation, and was rewarded when Sherlock in turn went to his knees and took John into his mouth. John swore properly, hands clutching at the door behind him, involuntarily cataloguing differences; Sherlock was using his tongue more than Jane, his hands were larger; John was deep in his mouth and he couldn’t – he was going to come, in Sherlock’s _mouth_ and Jane was there, watching – he managed to choke out a warning, pulling at Sherlock’s hair, but Sherlock didn’t pull off and John couldn’t stop himself, he was finally coming, gasping and shuddering through it.  His legs were barely holding him up, and he let gravity pull him down to the floor, leaning forward awkwardly to pull Sherlock in for a kiss. Clumsy, thinking about reciprocation, he slid a hand up Sherlock’s leg and over the firm bulge in his trousers. But then he remembered Jane, watching, and looked up. Sherlock turned his head too.

“No,” said Jane, as though responding to John’s thoughts. “I’m not staying. Too complicated, being between you two.” She stood up. She hadn’t even taken off her coat. “I’ll give you a week, and you’d better be looking well-shagged at the end of it, or I might share my photos of the last five minutes with the Met. Now shift over, let me out.”

“Em,” said John incoherently. He tucked himself in awkwardly with hands that were still trembling slightly, and then stood up, leaving room for Jane to open the door. Sherlock stayed where he was, on the floor with hands clasped round his legs, mouth slightly swollen. Jane looked down at him and John saw something pass between them, an acknowledgement. Jane smiled, almost fond.

“See you later,” she said, and she walked out of the door.

John felt as though he had been hit over the head. It seemed inconceivable that the last fifteen minutes had actually happened to him. Yet Sherlock was there, very close to him, and Sherlock’s own breathing wasn’t quite even. John noticed this and it was like a gate opening in his mind, letting out a current that he hadn’t quite known was there, to mingle with the stream of thoughts and memories he always associated with Sherlock. The odd affection combined with the ever-present recognition of Sherlock’s attractiveness that John felt on a daily basis was merging, changing course, into this new stream of thoughts about stripping him out of his clothes and tasting him in turn.

“Well,” said John. He thought that Sherlock was nervous, but he himself suddenly felt filled with confidence, buoyant. “I owe you. Come here.” He reached out a hand. Sherlock crooked the corner of his mouth and let John pull him up, following him almost docilely to Sherlock’s bedroom. John crowded him against the bed before he could start talking, pushing him to sit on the end of it, and then he knelt between Sherlock’s legs, unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his trousers. It felt strange, and oddly erotic, to be doing this so soon after it had been done to him. Sherlock was biting his lip, silent for once, though his body was eloquent, shifting restlessly under John’s hands. John worked his trousers open and then mouthed at the line of cock through Sherlock’s pants. Sherlock hissed and his hands came to grip John’s hair, not hurting but not gentle, either. John stopped teasing; feeling Sherlock tense and wanting beneath him, but perhaps not able or willing to say, and took Sherlock’s cock out, gripping the base in his hand and running his tongue experimentally over the tip, coaxing a low, startled noise from Sherlock.

It was almost unbearable, the intimacy of doing this for Sherlock, without his own arousal to cloud his responses. John wanted, badly, to hear Sherlock’s voice begging him, but he also wanted to give Sherlock what he seemed to be asking for, and so he closed his mouth over the head and moved his mouth, faster, trying to set up a rhythm with his hand. It only took a couple of minutes, riding the shallow thrusts that Sherlock couldn’t seem to stop, before Sherlock made a low cry and tugged on John’s head, and John moved off, working him with his hands as Sherlock came, semen spattering on John’s shirt; he hadn’t even managed to take it off. Sherlock slumped back on the bed and John crawled up beside him and over him, bending down to nip at his neck. He thought of and then rejected several things to say, looking down at Sherlock, who was panting beneath him, flushed.

Sherlock met his eyes. “Unexpected?,” he said.

“Yes, you could say that,” said John.

Sherlock swallowed, and his gaze tracked restlessly across John’s face.

“But not – not unwelcome,” said John. “Just surprising. Was all this because I shagged Jane? Did you really – talk to her about it?”

Sherlock looked defensive. He pushed up at John and John rolled off to sit up beside him. Sherlock struggled up onto his elbows, casually disregarding his state of disarray.

“She was importunate,” he said. “She saw – I dislike being so transparent. I went to consult her about a, a case and she insisted that I was there for other motives.” He sounded disgruntled. “She told me I was misreading your sexual orientation, which I never do; I have extensive experience in interpreting other people’s desires.”

But not your own?, thought John. “And she was right,” he said.

“Possibly,” said Sherlock.

“I just gave you a blow-job,” said John. “Give her some credit. Call it feminine intuition if it makes you feel better.”

“ _Intuition_ ,” said Sherlock with contempt. “I am prepared to admit that she may have more first-hand experience with men than I have, and that perhaps my own judgement was off. Relatively speaking.”

“It doesn’t matter either way,” said John, relenting. “I hadn’t expected this either but I – I mean, assuming you want to have sex again, I’d be fine with that.”

Sherlock’s eyes met his, and his mouth curved into a smirk. “‘Fine’,” he said. “I think we could do better than that.”

John smiled back, showing his teeth. “If Jane wants to see us well-shagged…,” he said. “We don’t have to be anywhere today. I haven’t even seen you naked, yet.”

“Nor I you,” said Sherlock. Then he hesitated a moment. “You and Jane –” he said.

“That was just a friendly thing,” said John. “I like her, and I mean she’s hot, but.” He sighed a little. “You’re – If you’re fishing for compliments, or reassurance, you don’t need to. It’s not a competition.”

“But if it were, I would win,” said Sherlock, the ghost of a question in his tone.

“If it were, you would have won more than a year ago,” said John. “What do you think happened with all my other girlfriends?”

“Hmm,” said Sherlock, and he sat up abruptly and started unbuttoning his own shirt.

***

John hadn’t precisely been looking forward to seeing Jane again, but he was surprised at how pleased he was to see her when he and Sherlock arrived at the pub, her white hair and Greg’s grey bent together over a map of the area.

“Is Greg OK with working with Jane?,” John said, a little surprised.

“If not, he can always leave us the information and go back to the Yard,” said Sherlock, sweeping over to them.

“John,” Jane said. “Sherlock.” Her expression was carefully neutral. “Good week?”

“Pretty good, yeah,” said John, straight-faced. Sherlock bent down and entirely unexpectedly kissed her on the cheek, briskly, and then slid into the booth beside her. Greg’s eyebrows were almost in his hairline. Jane put her hand over Sherlock’s on the table and smiled at him, then took her hand away again.

“Not what you’re thinking,” said John, sitting down beside Greg.

“No,” said Jane. “I did shag John, but now I’m pretty sure he’s taken.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, firmly.

“Bloody hell,” said Greg. “You mean you two finally – Jesus, well done, I suppose.” He looked at Jane. “I don’t even want to know how you managed that, but now I really am scared of you.”

“You mean you weren’t before? I’m hurt,” said Jane.

“She’s bloody terrifying,” said John to Greg. “Can we get you another pint? I think we owe you.”

“If Sherlock’s teaming up with Tennison, you have no idea how much you’re going to owe me,” said Greg. “The Met will have a fit.”

“Good,” said Jane. “Let them. They threw me on the fucking scrapheap, but if there’s still work to be done, I’m going to bloody well do it, and they can fuck off.”

Greg looked a little taken aback.

“We’re not ‘teaming up’,” said Sherlock. “Jane can…supplement your knowledge of police procedures and prior cases, but with more freedom to operate.”

“You think John and I are both your sidekicks,” said Jane. She shrugged. “If it makes you feel better.” Sherlock frowned at her.

“I definitely need another pint,” said Greg. “Coming to the bar, John?”

“I’ll have a Guinness, thanks,” said John. “Sherlock’ll give you a hand with the drinks.”

“What?,” said Sherlock. John kicked him under the table. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him but then slid out and stood up, looking petulant.

“Lime and soda for me,” said Jane. Sherlock scowled, and strode towards the bar: Greg gave John a “what-the-fuck?” face and John gestured to him to follow. Then he looked across at Jane.

“I don’t know whether to thank you or not,” he said, quickly, before he lost his nerve. “What you saw – I might never have acted on it.”

“Believe it or not, it wasn’t for your benefit,” said Jane.

“I got that,” said John. “And things are good. Great, maybe. But weird. Weirder. I just.” He looked at the bar, where Sherlock resolutely had his back turned to them, though John bet he was straining every nerve to hear; Greg seemed to be telling him an anecdote or something, which was probably a doomed effort. “I didn’t want to put all my eggs in one basket.”

He winced: how had he come up with something so clichéd? But Jane looked suddenly serious.

“John – ,” she said. She bit her lip, running a hand through her hair. “Look, I never risked that. With anyone. With the fucking job, yes. But what have I got to show for it?”

She looked at John. “Oh, don’t feel sorry for me, for Christ’s sake, that’s not the point. The point is, it will work out, or it won’t, but at least you won’t look back and be pissed off that you two never gave it a shot. And I’m hardly the expert on relationships, but you’d have ended up in bed anyway at some point, with or without me.”

“Probably would, yeah,” said John.  “Thanks, then. And – are you OK?”

“You mean, am I pining over you? I think I’ll live,” Jane said, and then, relenting. “Yes, I’m OK, I’m as fine as I can be, considering that I’m drinking fucking lime and soda in one of the better pubs in London.”

Greg and Sherlock were making their way over to them, Sherlock carefully holding two pint glasses in front of him and looking disgusted with himself.

“Sorry,” said John. “Maybe – Starbucks next time?”

Jane raised her eyes heavenwards. “Starbucks,” she said with contempt. “Next time, how about you all come over to mine.”

It wasn’t phrased as a question, but John heard it as one. “Yes,” he said, with firmness. “Yes, we will.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this fairly random crossover! Special thanks to regan_v, and to ghoulkitten for advocating Mycroft/Jane in the comments: I nearly rewrote the ending here to make that happen, but instead I'm just going to imagine it happening shortly after the end of this fic....


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